


The Dark Night of the Soul

by rip1009



Series: Requiem for a fool. His Dark Chronicles. [7]
Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: A lot of feels, M/M, and he wants to live, by beautiful son finally fighting back, it hurts a lot, it hurts and I'm hurting as I type, mentions of damaged brought by fire, mentions of madness, mentions of mutilated flesh, my beautiful son is fighting back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 13:36:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14955663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rip1009/pseuds/rip1009
Summary: Nicolas finally goes through his dark night of the soul.Story set after Nicolas survives the Sabbath.The story is inspired by the poem "La Noche Oscura Del Alma" by Saint John of the Cross.  The term "dark night (of the soul)" in Roman Catholic spirituality describes a spiritual crisis in the journey toward union with God.





	The Dark Night of the Soul

**Author's Note:**

> As you read this story, I encourage you to listen Loreena McKennitt's take of "The Dark Night of the Soul" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2C93WU1GLu8)  
> This story is dedicated to my grandmother, may you find peace, may you smile again, may your thoughts be your own again. May we see each other soon.

_Upon a darkened night_

_The flame of love was burning in my breast_

_And by a lantern bright I fled my house while all in quiet rest_

Pain pulsed through every muscle and inch of flesh. The fire had numbed nerves, personal demons and voices ragging inside his skull. Nicolas could endure the ravages of fire. He gritted his teeth, the simple flinch bringing a new wave of pain, radiating all over his traumatized body. He could endure the fire, the burns, the smell of his own charred skin and flesh, he swore he could endure it all if only the voices would stop. The voices, the laughter, the madness he had to switm through day and night. He had been tired, so tired and so angry and he could no longer think straight, not even for the nightly chore of surviving inside the theater, that personal tomb he had considered in those first days his absolution, instead, it turned out to be his prison, his sanitarium.

  
He tried to wrap his hands around his legs, a childish move which brought more pain. It was the only word and sentiment he could think straight through. Pain. This time, the pain was delivering him from the cacophony of voices and emotions. Everything had burnt on that pyre he had stumbled upon.

  
Nicolas could barely open his eyes, the skin had melted from his face, the flesh, fat, muscle and tendons mangled and struggling to heal. Weakly, he lifted his hand, trying to run a burnt finger over the place he knew the scars were reminding him of what meant to push the limits. At least he hadn't been destroyed that night. The thought had crept that same night, his throat too sore from the screams and howls of pain, looking at the bleeding stumps. Laughter and cries had joint together in his voice. The music had been taken, the music no longer brought the mesmerized ones to the shrine. And the devil's protege no longer sang, and their thoughts were their own, and the music no longer hurt, the music was just music, the music was pleasure, the music was no longer tied to the hurricane of emotions clashing inside him. It hurt and it brought peace. Blessed darkness, blessed Hell, the pain brought peace. During those nights of hunger and pain, Nicolas thought of healing, healing his broken soul, healing the ghosts running amok inside his mind. A different pain, an all consuming one.

  
The old ones spoke of the fire as the only instrument capable of delivering the mad ones. The fire had been the threat he had heard over and over again inside the theater. The little master, the dark cherub had been against such a punishment. He had tried to keep him alive. In his own ways. He had been blind. Blind now by his own crumbling flesh, Nicolas understood, he was seeing it clearly. He kept running his finger over the spots the scars rested angry and swollen.

  
He could recall the night, he has finally granted the right to his own appendages. He was silent, starving, watching as blood fought, weakly, to put together bone and muscles, tendons and joints. He was too weak, weak from the blood-loss, from being starved, he was surprised the blood had began to pour from his stumps. For days, he couldn't move them them correctly, trembling, shaking, he had tossed the various violins he had tried to the walls, watching the wood splinter and crumble to the stone floor. The music was no more. The music was gone, the voices were waiting, laughing, loving his misery.

  
Nicolas knew he was a vain man. His dark looks, his body, the way he spoke when he wanted to. Vanity was a sin, a mortal sin. In God's eyes, he would have to pay for all his sins, for all his crimes.

  
A gurgling sound made its way from his throat at his own thoughts. He had been damned since he had been a child. A child who had cursed God for taking his mother, a child who had vowed to give his own soul, to any God, simply to be able to hold his mother, alive, in his arms one more time. To hear her voice. As he stumbled, drunk, in Paris, he re-made the same vow simply to have Lestat by his side, in his arms, in his bed again. He had fallen from God's grace long ago. What he was, was not a punishment, it was the result of that bargain. Such a fool he had been. He realized that now. Such a weak fool.

  
The night. _The dark night of the soul_. He reminded himself of the stories the old priest from Auvergne spoke, that night which will come and he will have to face it all. Demons, angels and himself. That night was finally here and like a broken soldier, struggling to make it out from the battlefield which morphed into grave, he endured and he fought. A scream pierced through his entire body, he wanted to live. The very first thought he had when he had approached that wretched fire he had commanded for himself.

  
Feeling the radiating heat, Nicolas had retreated, no longer convinced of his own wish to perish from this earth. His broken mind was struggling with his instinct to survive. The voices fought to bring him closer and closer, to make than one last step and throw himself into the welcoming arms of the flames. He turned around looking for Armand, he could no longer see him and panic settled over him. He didn't want to continue this. He wanted to live. Suddenly, he felt his feet go numb and a strong hand pushed him, pushing him over an imaginary threshold of life and death. And the fire welcomed him, and the voices howled, and the pain embraced him. He couldn't stay still. The strength of madmen, they called it, mortals and immortals alike. The fire licked his skin and melted it, flowing through muscle and bone, running through his veins and scorching his blood.

He ran and didn't know where, or how, pushed by some internal force to save himself, to live. He ran and he felt weak, like a burning torch, finally extinguished, he felt down. He could swear he was crumbling into a pile of dust. The voices were finally quiet. The voices hurt as well. All he could feel was pain. Numbing, burning pain.

  
He remembered he had crawled, like an old man, he crawled inside a cave, safe from the sun which would rise. He hoped the death sleep will lull him into some catatonic state and spare him from everything he felt. He remember the old ones, the all knowing ones, their whispers in the dark of the catacombs. Maybe a few years of sleep would cure him. The death-sleep or the fire. Those were his only hopes for salvation. That first night, when he had tasted Lestat's blood and he learned he had to hide inside a coffin, to hide from the daylight, his mind at first refused to obey the instinct to survive and his body's new desires. He loathed confined spaces, like a coffin, always afraid of death. Now he was dead and he had become a bringer of death. Undead, unclean, the devil's minion. It was a punishment and he had to endure it for he had begged for this, he had begged and pleaded on his knees. He had begged for the eternal, for death, for darkness, for madness. Fire or sleep. Or neither.

  
His mind was finally rebelling. His mind was screaming back at all the voices, his own voice trying to fight all the voices who mocked him, who scolded him. He wanted to live and survive this ordeal. Like Lucifer, he rebelled and turned his back on what was pre-ordained. He had to live, he had to feed, he had to heal.

  
Nicolas stood. Nicolas endured waves upon waves of pulsing pain, of pulsing heath. One night, he could finally open his eyes. He tried to get up but failed. He felt weak, unable to stand on his own two feet. So he crawled on his hands and knees. He could hear the small droplets of water somewhere, he could smell the fresh ground after the rain. He could dig a grave. But who will wake him up? Will he be able to wake up if he went in the ground? No. He will endure. He never took the easy road. He will endure the ravages of fire, he will endure the time it took for his own voice to defeat the cacophony battling inside his mind. With each voice he was defeating, he felt a strange sense of pride. For he was a proud and vain man. But he will no longer he a broken man. A mad-man.

  
He was starved for blood. He recalled how he loathed to drink the blood of rats, the only food he could find in his cell. Punished monthly for his trespasses. No blood. A rat or two he would come across. At first, the rats where a luxury. The mad ones didn't deserve that. Not even a scrawny rat, the blood tasting bitter and cold. Those nights, he dreamed of warm blood. Of making love with the man he loved, sharing the blood.

  
He gritted his teeth, the gesture still agonizing on his body. His fangs brushed the charred bottom lip and blood coated the decayed skin. He had to drink some blood, he had to gather his strength. He was not for the eternal death. He will live. His scrawny hands, trembled over a furry rodent. Those damned shakings. It hurt and infuriated him, he brought the bastard food to his mouth and let his fangs sink in. He vowed it will be last time he will taste this poor substitute for blood. The blood was bitter and cold as he expected but it was necessary, the only blood he could hunt. For now. He will regain his strength and hunt and one of these night, he will hunt a mortal. He will taste the warm blood and let it warm his heart. He let his mind lull itself on the fantasy as he was finally draining the rat.

  
He crawled back to his dark cot, hugging his frail form with his shaking, battered hands, whispering to himself words of encouragement. He will survive, he will survive. Like a mantra, repeated again and again. He will get through this dark night of the soul.

_Without light or guide, save that which burned in my heart._

  
He felt the day bleeding from the night and allowed himself to he lulled by the death-sleep and he will awake again as night won over the day. He will endure, he will try much harder to get up on this own two feet. He will adapt and try to find something better, stronger to fed upon. He closed his eyes and the pain ceased to exist, the voices were defeated, each night, one by one succumbed until his own voice remained. And one of those nights, he might try to heal his broken heart as well.

  
_All ceased and I abandoned myself,_  
_Leaving my cares forgotten among the lilies._


End file.
